


Saving Sir Arthur

by DorsetGirl



Series: Sharpe - Weekly Clip Transcripts [1]
Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Movie: Sharpe's Rifles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorsetGirl/pseuds/DorsetGirl
Summary: Sharpe dreams of gaining promotion.
Series: Sharpe - Weekly Clip Transcripts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2172534
Kudos: 3





	Saving Sir Arthur

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this clip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wjBye88G_10) from _Sharpe’s Rifles_.
> 
> All dialogue is from the show, I’m just borrowing it to build Sharpe’s story around.

~ ~ ~

The Rifle sergeant sat comfortably and watched the river flow quietly by. His men dawdled at the edge enjoying the brief break, boots airing on the bank and rifles laid out in lines for his inspection. 

A right cosy billet, this one, he mused to himself as he smoothed his damp hair down with his polishing cloth. Good food, a good rifle, and a squad of good men he’d spent time honing till he reckoned they could stand in the line alongside any of them posh regiments. And with Sir Arthur Wellesley now in charge there’d be plenty of standing in the line to come, anyone could see that. 

Ears attuned to the activity up the hill at the camp, he decided they could take another five minutes before they needed to head back. As the men started putting their boots back on, one of them nudged his neighbour and nodded up the hill in the direction of the camp. The sergeant glanced over his shoulder and saw Nosey himself exercising his fine horse towards the river. The sergeant had a lot of time for Wellesley - cold bastard he might be, but he was scarcely more civil to the toffs than to the men, and the sergeant liked that - but he hoped the general really was just exercising the horse. He wasn’t in the mood for a snap inspection right now.

“Eyes down,” he warned the men.

He wanted a few more minutes to run his mind over his letters and how he could make them come quicker and cleaner on the page. Better quill, he supposed, and decent ink, though how a mere sergeant was supposed to persuade the clerks to broach their stores for him was something he’d never quite fathomed.

Seeing Sir Arthur’s horse splashing into the water he decided instead to allow himself a minute or two of his favourite daydream - the one where he’d somehow performed a legendary feat and become a Lieutenant. He’d have a fine sash and a sword, and perhaps a pistol, like the one a fellow sergeant had lifted from a dead French officer at Vimeiro. The sergeant had enjoyed handling its perfect balance and the one shot he’d been allowed had flown true.

He stood up slowly, imagining himself cutting a fine figure in a smart new uniform. He’d stay with the infantry, he thought, not for the likes of him to buy a horse - if they’d even want him in the cavalry, which they wouldn’t. As an officer the men would respect him, and he’d decide for himself how and where to meet the enemy instead of spending all his time walking behind the company closing up the files. 

But he knew unless his luck changed he’d never be able to afford even a tattered old uniform thrown out by some richer officer, so perhaps it was for the best it was all destined to remain a daydream.

His thoughts were interrupted by screams and the washing women scrabbling away from the water in panic. Across the river he saw Sir Arthur galloping his horse back down the slope and as they entered the river a shot echoed across the valley and the horse reared.

Beast and man landed in the water while behind them three dragoons thundered over the rise and down towards where Sir Arthur flailed, breath knocked out of him by the fall. The sergeant hastily forgot his dreams of promotion and was in the water, rifle at half-cock, splashing towards Sir Arthur before he’d even worked out what he was going to do.

The first job was obvious and the sergeant took time to aim carefully at the leading dragoon. There would not be time to reload so he needed to drop this man where he might obstruct the second. The leader dropped where he’d planned but the second man was closer than he’d thought. The sergeant looked desperately behind, hoping someone would see what was happening and lend a hand.

All he saw was Sir Arthur still stunned and barely moving in the water immediately behind him, severely restricting his own movement as the second dragoon approached. The third man wasn’t far behind and the sergeant held his rifle ready to use as a club, knowing that if this didn’t go right the next shots for him and Sir Arthur would be at sunset, over their graves.

With no room to manoeuvre he had no choice as the second horse passed him but to pivot and protect the general with his own body. The sabre cut painfully into his back making him stagger and he nearly went down on top of Sir Arthur, but steadied himself as he heard the dragoon turn his horse. 

The third man was already at the water’s edge judging his moment and the sergeant knew if the next blow landed at all it would take him down and leave Sir Arthur at the mercy of both horsemen.

Up to now the sergeant had been calm and professional, doggedly standing his place in a line of one, but now he felt a flicker of anger. His bloody men that he was so proud of had buggered off, useless twats, and he’d need to call on everything he had to get himself and the General through this. He turned himself and his anger on the second dragoon, already coming at him again.

_Think to kill General Wellesley do you, you bastard? Well, not while I'm alive, we need him._

The Frenchman made the fatal error of leaning too close to the sergeant for the killing blow and the sergeant clubbed him on the back with his rifle and determinedly dragged him off the horse. The dragoon went down and the rifle was up again as the sergeant moved forward quickly and brought the butt down ferociously on the Frenchman’s head. The dragoon convulsed and lay flat out on his back. He’d never bother anyone again.

The sergeant was already at the holster at the man’s left side - _come on, damn you_ \- grabbing his pistol, raising it, aiming and firing in one smooth movement.

The third dragoon flung both arms up at the impact, and, waiting only long enough to see him fall, the sergeant turned back to Wellesley, who was still winded but finally starting to stir himself. From the corner of his eye the sergeant could see - at last - someone approaching and he realised it was Major Hogan, running down from the officers’ tents up at the camp.

Being careful to keep his rifle out of the water, the sergeant bent over and grabbed Sir Arthur by the arm, pulled him to his feet and helped him back to the bank where Hogan was stood waiting for them. The fighting fever still coursed through his veins and the sergeant had to stop himself dragging too hard on the man’s arm, eager to get them both out of the water before someone across the river noticed they’d lost a patrol.

He let go of Wellesley’s arm as the general stumbled ashore to stand alongside Hogan, leaving the sergeant standing in the water looking up at them both. 

“Better late than never, Hogan,” Sir Arthur remarked. It didn’t sound like a reprimand, more like a joke, the sergeant thought, but in his experience officers weren’t much in the habit of being humorous in front of sergeants. He faced forwards, careful to focus on Sir Arthur’s coat buttons rather than his face. 

Remember never to look an officer in the eye, his own first sergeant had told him, and you won’t go far wrong.

“What’s your name?”

He hadn’t been expecting that, but he answered automatically,

“Sharpe.”

Then he realised that wasn’t enough and introduced himself properly.

“Sergeant. 2nd Battalion, 95th Rifles, Sir.”

He wasn’t sure why Sir Arthur would care who he was, though it was good of him to ask. It was well known the General believed that treating the men decently would make them fight better.

“I’m much obliged to you,” the General said. “You did me a damn’ good turn.” 

There didn’t seem to be much he could say to that. Sharpe glanced at Major Hogan, who nodded firmly, so he looked back at Sir Arthur, lowered his head slightly in acknowledgement and waited to be dismissed. He was planning how he would tell this tale at the sergeants’ campfire tonight - that Sir Arthur actually spoke to him _and_ asked his name - and at first he didn’t quite take in what the general was saying.

“Now I’m going to do you a damn’ bad one. I’m giving you a field commission, Sharpe. From this moment on you’re a Lieutenant in the 95th.”

A Lieutenant? Sharpe caught his breath, his heart hammering. He’d done it! 

Had he? 

He hoped he wasn’t dreaming. He swallowed hard and tried to work out what to say but he’d barely opened his mouth when Sir Arthur beamed at him and said “Major Hogan, meet Mr Sharpe.”

He had! A _bloody_ Lieutenant! 

Sharpe knew his mouth was hanging open but he had no idea what to say or where to look, then he finally realised Hogan was holding his hand out. He stared at the Major and wiped his hand on his wet trousers, then grasped Hogan’s hand carefully. He wasn’t sure of the protocol but hoped he was right that with officers you didn’t spit on your hand first to seal the deal.

He thought Hogan didn’t seem at all surprised by Sir Arthur’s impulsive action, and certainly for a Major he had always been reasonably friendly to Sharpe. Engineers always appreciated a good sergeant, and Sharpe knew himself to be a very good sergeant indeed. One of the best, though he said it himself. He’d sometimes wished that Lawford would confide his desire for promotion to other officers, in the hope that someone might take a chance on what Sharpe had to offer. 

Then he tuned back in to what Hogan was saying. 

“The minute I saw him, I looked. Hogan, I says, that fellow don’t seem much,”

For a moment Sharpe thought his heart was going to fail him. Was Hogan going to advise Wellesley to take back his commission? He looked up at Wellesley almost in fright. Could he do that? After the initial shock Sharpe was beginning to realise that after the years of wishful thinking he’d actually gone and done a feat without even meaning to, and now he thought he couldn’t bear it if he wasn’t going to be a Lieutenant after all.

“But he’s a natural-born officer,” Hogan continued, speaking confidentially to the general just as if Sharpe wasn’t there. Well, you wouldn’t last long in the ranks if you didn’t accept that was just how officers were, so Sharpe concentrated on not freezing to death while they got on with it. He knew there was no reason a good sergeant shouldn’t make a good officer, but “natural born” felt like Hogan was mocking him, and he was suddenly exhausted with all this bloody politeness. A chilly breeze off the mountain was lancing into the deep cut on his back, he needed to clean his rifle and wash the blood out of his shirt and his feet were so cold he thought he’d be glad when he couldn’t feel them any more.

“Of course, you know, Sir Arthur - he’ll need a mentor.”

Sharpe wondered what a mentor might be when it was at home, and hoped it might have something to do with engineering. He’d seen Hogan riding off alone on many occasions and thought his job looked more interesting than endlessly parading around camp showing off their finery as so many officers did.

“Hogan, you keep your hands off him,” the General warned.

That was a disappointment. He knew he wouldn’t get the choice, of course, but Sharpe thought he might have worked well with Hogan, and he could learn a lot about being an officer from a man who seemed comfortable with all stations from the highest to the newest recruit. Sharpe already knew he didn’t want to be the kind of officer who flogged his men, though in his heart he wasn’t sure how you could control the men without at least the threat to back you up.

Wellesley turned back to Sharpe and said “Hogan is an officer on, er,...” Hogan coughed, and Sir Arthur concluded lamely “...on my staff”.

Sharpe had a shrewd idea what other duties Hogan carried out for Sir Arthur - a good sergeant takes the trouble to know the people who know things. Sharpe’s men got better food than others because he always knew when the new supplies were coming in, and he’d also hoarded to himself the knowledge that every time Hogan came back from one of his solitary journeys the General called his staff together and next morning new orders would come down the line. Sorties, raiding parties, preparations for moving whole battalions - all proof to Sharpe that whatever anyone said, all those weeks riding out by himself Hogan wasn’t just measuring up bridges. 

Sharpe also knew all this was supposed to be a secret, so he concentrated on keeping his face non-committal and not shivering too visibly. He still didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. Above him on the hill he could see his men standing watching; they needed to form up and get back to camp, but perhaps that wasn’t his job any more? Sharpe was fairly certain Sir Arthur had said “from this moment”, and he could bet that Private Mallick, who everyone said had the hearing of a bat, was taking all this in and passing it on.

“Your colonel will be informed; I’ll request that light duties ...”

Light duties often meant clerking, Sharpe knew. He licked his lips and swallowed carefully. Maybe he would get to practise his letters after all - so long as they didn’t bust him down to Private before the week was out for adding everything up wrong. Lawford being a gentleman, he hadn’t been quite so firm on teaching him the numbers as he had with letters. Sharpe supposed he had an estate manager back in England looking after all that for him. Counting the money and such.

“...until his wound be healed”.

At this, Sharpe remembered that he still had blood all down his back, he didn’t have a spare shirt and he was going to bleed all over whatever jacket he managed to find to suit his new status. And he was tired and hungry, could barely stop himself shaking with the cold and at this moment he would have given anything for a cup of tea rather than stand here another second being talked at by bloody officers.

Sharpe came to attention as Sir Arthur abruptly said “Good day to you both,” and walked off towards where his orderly stood calming his horse, none the worse for its ducking.

Hogan called after him, 

“Light duties sir, light duties it is sir, absolutely”. Then he stepped closer, being careful to keep his own feet out of the water, and spoke confidentially.

“See here, Sharpe...”

Sharpe stared straight ahead and waited, hoping the Major would hurry up and say whatever it was he wanted to say. He’d had enough now, he was wet through and he was still standing in the poxing water and at this rate he’d be getting no food tonight. He just wanted to get back to the lines, get warm by the fire and have one of the men bring him that cup of tea.

Except - he wouldn’t be going back to the lines, would he? Even a second Lieutenant, who was no-one, really, wouldn’t be sleeping in the lines with the men. His heart sank as he thought about a man of his age having to bunk in the junior officers’ tent with the Ensigns and a couple of other second Lieutenants, barely a one of them old enough to bloody shave. No, he thought, he’d build himself a little fire somewhere away from the officers _and_ the men and let thoughts of his new position warm his heart and guts tonight.

“Light duties means staying at Headquarters and being snubbed by snobs,” said Hogan in his ear.

He knew that, of course he did, and now he was wondering if he really wanted this promotion after all. He was a fighter, not a quill pusher. He watched his men strolling up the hill laughing amongst themselves and wished he was with them, on his way to evening inspection, a meal - anywhere where he knew what to do.

Because right now he had no idea what to do. He didn’t know where to go or what his duties would be when he got there. He didn’t know whether or where he was going to eat tonight. He didn’t know how he was supposed to get himself a Lieutenant’s uniform when no-one had been paid for two months.

And he didn’t know how to say any of this to Major Hogan, so he remained silent, eyes front.

“How would you like me to find you ... something else?”

Sharpe allowed his gaze to slide carefully towards Hogan, though he kept facing front so he could look away quickly if necessary - he didn’t need to be charged with insolence to an officer at this stage. So was the Major offering him a choice? And if so - of what, for God’s sake?

Like the conspirator Sharpe suspected he was, Hogan wasn’t looking at him, almost as if he was pretending not to talk to him. It seemed daft to Sharpe, and he looked away from Hogan before speaking. He didn’t want to be sent back to England to oversee recruiting parties and he had no idea what else he might ask for, so he settled for saying,

“Long as it’s safe, sir.”

“That’s my boy,” said Hogan, leaving him none the wiser.

~ ~ ~


End file.
